Discovering that my "perfectly minimal" life meant washing my only two mugs before friends could visit was just the beginning of realizing how the minimalist dream had quietly sabotaged the very simplicity it promised.
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Remember when minimalism was supposed to be the answer to everything? Simplify your life, they said. Own less, live more.
I'll admit it: I bought into the promise completely. After years of feeling overwhelmed by both my demanding finance job and the clutter in my life, minimalism seemed like salvation. And while decluttering my closet and streamlining my morning routine definitely helped, some aspects of the minimalist lifestyle actually made things more complicated than before.
If you've ever felt guilty about not being minimal enough, or wondered why certain minimalist practices leave you feeling stressed rather than serene, you're not alone. Let's talk about the seven things many minimalists give up that can actually make life harder, not simpler.
1) Having backup items
You know that moment when your only pair of running shoes gets soaked in an unexpected downpour, and you have a race tomorrow? That was me last spring. In my quest to own just one of everything, I'd donated all my backup athletic gear.
The minimalist ideal of owning exactly what you need sounds great until real life happens. Your phone charger breaks the night before an important meeting. Your winter coat zipper fails in January. Your only good pan warps beyond use right before hosting dinner.
Sure, you can always buy replacements, but constantly having to drop everything for emergency shopping trips isn't exactly the peaceful, simplified existence we were promised. Sometimes having a spare light bulb or an extra phone charger tucked away saves you time, stress, and those frantic late-night store runs.
2) Sentimental items that "don't spark joy"
Marie Kondo's famous question changed how we think about our belongings. But here's what I learned the hard way: not everything meaningful sparks immediate joy. Some things hold complex emotions that are still important to process and honor.
After my minimalist awakening, I tossed old journals from my twenties because reading them made me cringe. Gone were photos from difficult periods of my life. Out went gifts from relationships that had ended. These items didn't make me happy in the moment, so they had to go, right?
Wrong. Years later, I deeply regret not having those journals to reflect on my growth. Those photos documented important chapters of my story, even if they weren't all happy ones. Memory is unreliable, and sometimes we need tangible reminders of where we've been to appreciate where we are now.
3) Tools for hobbies you "might" pursue
When I embraced minimalism, I gave away my sewing machine because I hadn't used it in two years. Also gone: art supplies, musical instruments I was "never going to learn anyway," and camping gear from my pre-trail-running days.
The problem? Interests are cyclical. That sewing machine I donated? I desperately wanted it back when the pandemic hit and I suddenly had time to make my own masks and mend clothes. The camping gear would have been perfect when friends invited me on a backpacking trip last summer.
Yes, you can rent or borrow things, but availability isn't guaranteed, and the cost adds up quickly. Plus, having to source equipment every time inspiration strikes can kill the momentum entirely. Sometimes keeping those "just in case" hobby supplies means you're more likely to actually pursue those interests when the mood strikes.
4) Physical books and media
Digital everything was supposed to free us from the burden of physical media. No more bookshelves taking up space! No more DVD collections gathering dust! Everything accessible with a click!
Except streaming services remove content without warning. E-books you "own" can disappear due to licensing changes. Internet outages leave you with no entertainment. And there's something about physical books that screens can't replicate, especially when you want to disconnect from technology.
I gave away hundreds of books, including gardening guides I'd annotated over the years and cookbooks splattered with evidence of successful (and not so successful) vegan experiments. Now I find myself buying some of them again because flipping through a physical book while cooking or planning my garden beats scrolling on a device every time.
5) Kitchen gadgets and specialized tools
The minimalist kitchen aesthetic is beautiful: clear counters, a few quality basics, nothing excessive. I got rid of my food processor, stand mixer, and "single-use" gadgets like my garlic press and citrus juicer.
You can definitely cook without these things. You can chop vegetables by hand, knead bread with your arms, and squeeze lemons with your bare hands. But you know what? After long runs or exhausting workdays, the last thing I want is to spend forty minutes hand-chopping vegetables for a batch soup.
Those "unnecessary" tools existed for a reason: they save time and physical effort. Getting rid of them meant I cooked less, ordered takeout more, and ironically, complicated my goal of maintaining a healthy diet. Sometimes the simple life requires a few complex tools.
6) Decorative items that make a space feel like home
Bare walls. Minimal surfaces. Nothing without a practical purpose. The minimalist aesthetic can be calming, but living in a space that feels like a hotel room gets old fast.
I removed artwork, plants beyond my basic herb garden, throw pillows, and anything deemed purely decorative. My home was certainly easier to clean, but it also felt cold and impersonal. Friends commented that my place didn't feel like "me" anymore.
Humans need beauty and personality in our living spaces. Those "useless" decorative items contribute to our mental wellbeing more than we realize. A home should be more than functional; it should nurture your spirit too.
7) Social conveniences like guest supplies
In my minimalist phase, I got rid of extra bedding, towels for guests, and even spare plates and cups. Why own service for twelve when I usually eat alone?
This decision made spontaneous hospitality nearly impossible. Friends couldn't crash after late nights out. I couldn't host family without frantic shopping trips. Even having someone over for tea meant washing my only two mugs if I'd used one that morning.
Relationships require space and supplies. When you can't accommodate others comfortably, social connections suffer. The simplified life shouldn't come at the cost of community and connection.
Finding your own balance
Look, I still believe minimalism has value. Decluttering changed my life for the better in many ways. But the extreme version, where you own exactly 100 items or live with bare walls and one spoon, isn't the path to peace for everyone.
Real simplicity means having what you need to live your actual life, not some idealized version of it. That might mean keeping backup running shoes, cherishing sentimental items that bring complex emotions, or owning enough mugs to have friends over without stress.
The promise of minimalism is freedom, but rigid rules about what you can't own can become their own prison. True simplicity is personal. It's finding what serves your life, relationships, and wellbeing, then letting go of the rest, including the pressure to be perfectly minimal.
What matters isn't the number of things you own, but whether those things support the life you want to live. And sometimes, that life requires a few more possessions than the minimalist gurus would approve of.
